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<title>Hope Is Hard To Kill by FictionPenned</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27337963">Hope Is Hard To Kill</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned'>FictionPenned</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Last of Us (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Missing Scene</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:07:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,097</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27337963</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Ellie’s world has always been narrow — a place of bloodstains and fear and tightly locked safe houses. For other people, older people, there was a time of freedom and independence, when people could go for jogs in parks and sell their art and hit the open road, but her world is a city that surrendered to infection, and not even a whole city, at that. A small slice of attempted containment, plagued by strife and starvation and overzealous soldiers. She has dreamed of other lives, tasted them through the cultural artifacts of the people who lived on this planet before she was born — before the clickers and runners chased people into military service and fear and worry — but getting glimpses of that kind of life is far different than actually getting to live it.</em>
</p><p>Written for Fic In A Box 2020</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ellie &amp; Joel (The Last of Us)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fic In A Box</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hope Is Hard To Kill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kameiko/gifts">Kameiko</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Ellie’s world has always been narrow — a place of bloodstains and fear and tightly locked safe houses. For other people, older people, there was once a time of freedom and independence, when people could go for jogs in parks and sell their art and hit the open road, but her world is a city that surrendered to infection, and not even a whole city, at that. A small slice of attempted containment, plagued by strife and starvation and overzealous soldiers. She has dreamed of other lives, tasted them through the cultural artifacts of the people who lived on this planet before she was born — before the clickers and runners chased people into military service and fear and worry — but getting glimpses of that kind of life is far different than actually getting to live it.<br/>
<br/>
But her world has gotten a tiny bit bigger in the last few hours.</p><p class="p1">She leans her forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, eyes scanning the horizon as she watches the world roll by. She hasn’t been in a moving vehicle since she moved to the quarantine zone, and that had been a bus. Being in a pickup truck is different. It feels like songs and music and adventure. If she squints a bit and blurs her vision, she can pretend like she and Joel are rolling through times long since passed on their merry way to a relative’s house or a vacation or a campground.</p><p class="p1">The music that she stole plays through the speakers, slightly fuzzy and slightly tinny, and the tape skips whenever they hit a bump, but she likes it not despite the imperfections, but because of them. It makes the experience feel all the more real, like she has somehow entered a memory.</p><p class="p1">What she wouldn’t give to stop by a roadside attraction, to pull onto an overlook and stare out at a National Park, to walk into an old, dusty bar on Route 66 and spend a few quarters on an arcade game and her favorite song on the jukebox.</p><p class="p1">Of course, they can’t do any of those things. There is only the road ahead and the road behind and the many, many threats that line it, but that doesn’t stop her from wishing.</p><p class="p1">Ellie turns her head to look over at the man beside her. His hair and beard are spotted with grey, his face weathered and lined with the scars of a thousand days come before, and his eyes reflect years upon years of hardened loss.</p><p class="p1">She wonders if he’s the sort of man that cries, or if he’s simply given up on sadness and grief after all this time.</p><p class="p1">He seems like a fighter. She knows the sort. She’s been a soldier herself, after all. She's worked alongside dozens upon dozens of people who have prevented death, witnessed death, and caused death more times than any person ever should. They all have the same shadows on their face, the same weariness in their gaze, the same clenched set of their jaw. But he also seems like a father. He refuses to let her carry a gun, is wary of letting her out of his sight, and has stepped forward to protect her more than once, despite the fact that she is more than capable of handling herself. He hasn’t mentioned a family, hasn’t mentioned a child, hasn’t mentioned worrying about leaving people behind while he carries out this mission beyond the walls.</p><p class="p1">He catches her looking at him, and instead of turning her eyes away, she hardens her stare and raises her chin in an active, defiant challenge.</p><p class="p1">There’s a word on the tip of his tongue, and Ellie can see him toy with it for a moment before tossing it away. Silently, Joel turns his eyes back to the road and his grip tightens on the wheel to such a degree that his knuckles turn white.</p><p class="p1">“When was the last time you drove a car?” Ellie asks, running the tips of her fingers over the contours of the door. The leather is worn and pitted from age, cracked in a half-dozen places, like thin, winding scars.</p><p class="p1">“A long time ago,” Joel replies. It isn’t really an answer, but Ellie doesn’t have a chance to call him on it before he turns the question back on her. “When did you learn to drive?”</p><p class="p1">Her lip tightens into half a smirk as she echoes his evasiveness back at him. “A long time ago.”</p><p class="p1">Joel sighs — a deep breath in and out his nose. It clouds the air ever so slightly. “Used to be a day when someone your age wasn’t allowed behind the wheel.”</p><p class="p1">“Used to be an age where a lot of things were different, so I’ve heard.”</p><p class="p1">A pause settles between them, interrupted only by the rattle of the engine and the quiet roll of the music.</p><p class="p1">Joel is the one who finally ends it. “Let me guess, you’ve seen it in pictures or something?”</p><p class="p1">Ellie shrugs. “People tell stories. Used to have a friend who knew everything about games, and for a while I had a box of comics. Good stuff. Better than this,” she adds, holding the comic that she stole from Bill up in the air with a shrug. “I got to know the endings.”</p><p class="p1">Joel scoffs. “Endings are overrated, kid.”</p><p class="p1">There is a certain amount of sadness in the words, and Ellie buys herself time to think up an answer by busying herself with digging through the worn and decaying contents of the truck’s glovebox. “I like knowing that everything turns out well in the end.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s a fantasy. Nothing ever turns out well in the end. People just die.”</p><p class="p1">Ellie turns her eyes back towards the window and the desolate, war-torn landscape beyond. “If that was true, you would’ve given up on this mission way back there and left me alone.”</p><p class="p1">Joel flicks his tongue over dry, chapped lips and swallows hard. “Hard to beat the hope all the way out of someone. Must still have a bit of it stashed away somewhere.”</p><p class="p1">Ellie focuses on his reflection in the glass, and for a moment, she forgets about her anger for long enough to allow a small flutter of gratitude to shine in her eyes and take up residence in her chest. “Thanks. For the hope, I mean.”</p><p class="p1">The man leans forward, turning up the volume of the music, but it does not entirely manage to drown out the mumbled, “You’re welcome, Ellie.”</p><p class="p1">Ellie smiles, closes her eyes, and begins the long slide into sleep.</p>
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